


Harry Potter and the Immortal's Playground

by May_May_0_0



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A bit sad, Angst, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I've been there so stay safe y'all, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Master of Death Harry Potter, Or even turn into the moon, Panic Attacks, People tell me the teacup deserves a name, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-snap, Though then Tony could tell Thor "That's rough buddy", anthropomorphic inanimate objects, but Harry literally can't die, father-teacup relationship, potentially triggering to folks struggling to live, several unsuccessful suicides but such is the nature of being the master of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27453043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_May_0_0/pseuds/May_May_0_0
Summary: It starts slowly, the steady disconnect between who he is and who he should be. The man in the mirror becomes a stranger to him; he looks into the glass and wonders how everything became so distorted and backward and...wrong. He notices in bursts: when Teddy grows taller than him, when he’s kissing Ginny on her lips and looking at the subtle smile lines she’s starting to develop around her plush mouth. She’s got the cutest crinkles by her eyes.His face is smooth as it was when he was seventeen. Which was 18 years ago. He hasn’t aged a day._________Living forever isn't all it's cracked up to be. Harry Potter learns the meaning of immortality when everyone he loves dies again and again after becoming the master of death. After millennia of love lost, Death sends him to "Elsewhere" in order to give his master something new and different.Harry emerges from ash in New Asgard. What's a man like Thor to do but offer the traveler a home?
Relationships: Harry Potter & Avengers Team, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Thor (Marvel), Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 291
Kudos: 1424
Collections: Best Marvel Crossovers, Harry Potter Crossovers





	1. Prologue: Lay me Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter which is honestly a prologue for the fic. New chapters will come out this month
> 
> Please be aware that for the sake of this fic, in a trick shamelessly copied from Terry Pratchett, Death’s dialogue will be written in all caps. It is not because he is shouting, it is just because he is Death.
> 
> Leave a comment at the end to tell me what you think

It starts slowly, the steady disconnect between who he is and who he should be. The man in the mirror becomes a stranger to him; he looks into the glass and wonders how everything became so distorted and backward and...wrong. He notices in bursts: when Teddy grows taller than him, when he’s kissing Ginny on her lips and looking at the subtle smile lines she’s starting to develop around her plush mouth. She’s got the cutest crinkles by her eyes.

His face is smooth as it was when he was seventeen. Which was  _ 18 _ years ago. He hasn’t aged a day.

When Ron and Hermione start going grey, he invests in a cauldron and learns how to brew a potion that gives him the appearance of aging. He pretends not to notice the collective sigh of relief from all his friends.

George throws an arm around his shoulder during a Sunday brunch and jokes, “was worried you’d been bitten by a vamp, for a sec there. You just had damn good genes.”

Harry forces a smile. “Must be my Potter luck.”

Ron guffaws and raises a glass. “To the Potter luck. Here’s a toast for shit childhoods and smoking hot adulthood.”

Luna, curled around Neville’s arm, gazes dreamily around the room. “Aging is the process of dying slowly. Those who don’t age die in a flash. It takes one minute and they go from living to dead -- they don’t spend much time at all fading away.”

Hermione coughs uncomfortably. “That’s a bit dark, isn’t it?”

Luna looks confused. “No, not at all.” She winks at Harry, “Sometimes it means you get more time.”

Neville looks at Harry then, too. “So you decided to get some wrinkles like the rest of us mortals, hmm?”

Everyone else is still chatting and laughing at Harry’s new selection of wrinkles. Something about the couple at the end of the table, the rugged herbology professor and his ethereal researching wife, niggles a piece at the back of Harry’s mind. _ You decided to get wrinkles like the rest of us mortals _ ... It was presented like a conscious choice. 

_ Sometimes it means you get more time.  _

His three children graduate Hogwarts and he embarrasses them terribly. Ginny laughs beside him, face red as her hair used to be, eyes pleased and fond.

He tells her she’s still beautiful when her breasts sag and her face is decorated in miniature soft folds. Her breaths come shorter, her runs have turned to walks, her hips ache something fierce most nights. He studies potion books and notes from Severus Snape to make the aging potion more potent, starts drinking more of it, grits his teeth against the foul taste -- all to look the right age. 

He carries Ginny up the stairs in their home when her knees start to go. She laughs and calls him a romantic. “You can just levitate me, you know.”

He kisses her forehead. “I’ll remind you that I’m a romantic who was raised by muggles, my beloved pureblood princess.”

She swats his arm. “Stop that. I’m a blood-traitor.”

Their children find them hysterical when they come and visit. Albus curls a hand around Scorpius’s waist and whispers, “We’ll be just like them when we’re older.”

When he lays Ginny down in her grave, he feels a piece of himself go under the soft earth with her.

Luna lays a withered hand on his shoulder. “It’ll get easier with time. She’ll always be a part of you, but there will be others.”

Harry, tears streaming down his face, turns to gaze into her anguished blue eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gives him a sad smile. “This is nowhere near your ending. You smell like crickets and withered asphodel. You’ve been trying so hard to look like an old man, haven’t you? But you’ve still many years yet. You’ll bury me soon, too.”

Harry stares out at the graveyard where his children all stand holding one another. Hermione and Ron lie two graves down, tombstones filled with poetry of their love to each other, their children, and Harry. He's brought flowers to them every day for the past two years.

“You’re getting less cryptic with age.”

“It’s taken me a bit to comprehend the speech patterns of those who stumble blindly in the world.”

He lays a bouquet of yarrow over Ginny’s grave with the tenderness he used to use when curling a lock of red hair behind her ear and kissing her nose just to see it crinkle. “Is that so? Then can I ask you something candidly now?”

"I’m quite certain you know that I was a Ravenclaw. I breathe for the opportunity to answer life’s biggest questions.”

He stands. “Well then, will I ever die?”

Luna bends slowly over Ginny's tomb and lays down a bunch of alstroemeria. She runs her hand through the blossoms. “Oh Harry, everything dies. That’s the whole point.”

He does bury Luna. He leaves her no flowers. He gives her instead a pair of his shoes, a bottle-cap necklace and a note: “to keep you safe from the Nargles.”

The first Christmas he looks around at his children and realizes that they too are starting to look old, he decides he’s had enough. He wants to go before he buries his babies next to his wife and best friends. 

He takes enough Angel’s trumpet to kill a troll and banishes the bottle. He closes his eyes in his overly large and empty bed. When his children find him in the morning, it will look like he passed peacefully in the night. He thinks, “I guess I’ll meet death like an old friend, walk with him into the world beyond.”

_ OH, BUT IT’S NOT YOUR TIME YET, MY DEAR. NOT YET. NOT NEARLY YET. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry: So come on then, let's link up arms and go to the world beyond  
> Death: NO  
> Harry: But I'm ready  
> Death: YOU’LL DIE EVENTUALLY, DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT  
> Harry: But when though?  
> Death: I SAID, "DoN'T WoRRy AboUT iT"


	2. Put the Kettle On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry ends up in the MCU post infinity war. This is the first Christmas after Thanos got all snappy-snappy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha sorry folks for how long it took to get this chapter up. My roommate has been a terror to be around and failed to tell me she was in quarantine after an exposure with someone who tested positive so I had to figure out a bunch of things (and take many tests) before I could come home for Thanksgiving. But she and I are both negative! Stay safe out there.
> 
> This should update (most likely) about every two weeks. Check out my other fics "Dripping Fingers," and "Another Mind Game" if you've got the time and/or interest.

He wakes up in the morning still regretfully alive. He has flashes of a dream with a man holding a scythe, Harry saying, “but death is what gives life meaning,” and the figure just watching him and then dipping its head, IT IS NOT YOUR TIME.

So Harry looks around the room he's shared with his beloved wife for over a century, looks down at the bed he's cuddled all his children and rubbed their backs when they were sick, and read to them when they didn't know their letters yet, with a heavy sense of loss. He packs up the things he cannot live without -- his wedding ring, his photo album of his children and friends and wife and his childhood broomstick, that last gift from the only parent he’s ever known. The gift from a man who was perhaps also, in his soul, a terribly lovable dog full of love.

He stashes them in a mokeskin bag and apparates away (to somewhere, anywhere far from this deathbed) blind -- a bad choice -- but he doesn’t mind just now if he gets splinched along the way. His children are sleeping beneath him and James has always been magic sensitive, they’ll hear the crack and James will feel the wards shift as Harry leaves the Potter estate for the final time.

It’s been well-documented that about ten percent of wizards apparate in their final moments to end up with the people they love. It's considered the most romantic form of accidental magic. He hopes his children will hear the crack and believe that he has just gone to rest with Ginny in one last act of undying love. 

He ends up moments later, dry-heaving, in Japan, staring out at Hokkaido’s magical population. They ignore him -- just another British tourist come to discover the secrets of the East, just as ignorant as all the rest of them. 

He smiles. No one is looking for a young Harry Potter. People barely remember him outside of the old man who wrote a few textbooks. The war was already more than a century ago. He is no more immortalized than Dumbledore, reduced to a wizened form on a chocolate frog card.

The Japanese wizarding world has never cared much for foreign politics, absolutely no one will see or even look for resemblance to the former hero of the Wizarding world. He can be completely anonymous here.

He learns Japanese, he makes friends, he spends twenty years in the country before he gets the news that Lily Potter, the inventor of the Retinus Reparos Potion, the innovative brew that fixes poor eye-sight, has passed away. 

He drinks himself half-dead, memories playing behind his eye-lids. He remembers her at four years old, sitting on his knee, as he told her -- with a great many omitted details -- the story of his childhood. And then, the next day when they were playing with training wands and baking cookies, she said, “You be Daddy McGonagall, and I’ll be baby McGonagall, and let’s go get Draco for being out after-hours.” 

He’d teased, “Really, baby? That’s who you choose… Don’t you want to be like Daddy? Or Aunt Hermione?”

She’d rolled her tiny eyes. “ _Professor_ _McGonagall_ can turn into a **cat**. I wanna be just like her. Come on, let’s gooo~”

It had all been a ruse for her to play kitten and for him to carry her around because, “Daddy cats carry baby cats, it’s how it works, daddy.”

She’d refused to eat the cookies when they were out of the oven and insisted they both drink milk out of bowls. 

He’d said he didn’t imagine McGonagall would ever drink anything like a common pet cat, and she’d swatted his wrist and said, in a frighteningly realistic tone, “ _Professor_ McGonagall, Daddy.”

  
  
  


It’s the second time he tries to die. He’s rejected yet again, _NOT YET._ So he leaves Japan, travels to France and then Italy, and then Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso. He never spends more than fifteen years in any one place, just enough time to learn the language and a few bits of new magic, before he moves on.

He’s 271 when his last grandchild dies. Ginevra Siri Potter apparated in death to be with her beloved, the eulogy says. She was just three when Harry Potter “died,” and he moved on beyond his beautiful family. He remembers her flaming red hair and emerald green eyes and that she always tugged on his sleeves and asked him to make a Patronus. He feels a pang of regret that he never got to see her grow up. The eulogy says that she and her wife were soulmates; her wife’s spirit guardian had been a doe, and just like her grandfather, Ginevra’s Patronus had always been a stag. The eulogy continues, “with a love like that, it’s no surprise the souls rejoined in death.”

He lets himself fall off a cliff into the ocean by the coast of Ivory and hopes to find peace beneath the waves. He opens his eyes on a beach in the Cape of Good Hope, dusts off his robes, and continues on.

His friendships with Wizards and Muggles alike are hollow but so is he. He acts young sometimes and sometimes acts old. He cannot forget that he was a father any more than he can forget that he was a lover, a friend, and once, a prized soldier. He is too many things at once -- it’s more than a man can bear.

He knows he is becoming something of a legend, documented through centuries, the green-eyed boy who is too wise for his appearance, showing up all over the world with knowledge in his eyes and the weight of the world balanced precariously on his back.

There are poems written about the tragedy that he wears like a woven tapestry, there are ballads sung for his bravery -- he’s worshipped for all of a half-decade by an odd group of monks in central Europe, but he puts an end to that… he stops trying.

He lies in the center of a sand-dune somewhere, he can’t remember, and just stares up at the sun, daring it to blind him so that he can be numb somewhere. He should die of thirst soon, he thinks. He’s never had the patience before to just waste away, but he’s giving it his best shot. He closes his eyes, finally. He’s exhausted. And, silence, welcome silence, envelopes him in a thick blanket. _At long last._

***

The silence is deafening. The silence is the only thing Harry can hear, it drowns out all his thoughts, his pains, his fears, and leaves him in a vacuum void of sound. His own breath is silent, his heartbeat is stalled, there is nothing, only silence.

Harry listens. He listens to the silence. He lets his eyes stare unblinking at the white which surrounds him, letting his mind empty until the silence passes through. 

_Clear your mind._ Snape's voice echoes in the recesses of Harry’s memory.

_Clear your mind. Are you even trying?_ Harry smiles ever so slightly, remembering his former professor.

_“My mind is clear now. Are you proud?”_ He is met again by silence. _“Bastard.”_ His thoughts return to nothingness and he allows himself to fall forward, encased on all sides by an unshakable quiet. 

Harry startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He opens his eyes slowly, expecting to be met by Dumbledore. That was the first person he saw when he was dead the first time, and this was still “his party, after all.” Instead, he is met by a hooded figure holding a scythe.

“Death.” He greets.

MASTER. Death inclines his head.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Harry smirks. 

YOU HAVE NOT BEEN HAPPY MASTER. 

“Is that a question?”

I HAVE WATCHED YOU TRY TO DIE 327 TIMES. I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT WANT TO HAVE A CONVERSATION ABOUT IT. 

“I never asked to be immortal. This is your fault. But hey, I’m here now in this void thing. I think it might even bring me that peace I’ve always wanted to have. So why don’t we say it’s been a good run and you just let me die.”

YOU CANNOT DIE, MASTER. NOT YET.

“Aw shucks. Can’t you get a new master?”

NO.

“Do you even like me?” Death is silent.

I HAVE AFFECTION FOR YOU. YOU ARE THE MOST INTERESTING THING I HAVE EVER SPENT TIME WITH.

“So I have to live eternally to be your entertainment?” Harry’s green eyes flash.

BACK IN ONE OF OUR CONVERSATIONS, YOU TOLD ME THAT YOUR LIFE HAS NO MEANING BECAUSE DEATH IS WHAT MAKES LIFE HAVE PURPOSE. 

Harry nods, running a finger through his disheveled locks. Even in death, his hair is doomed. 

YOU ARE THE REASON DEATH HAS MEANING. FROM THE BEGINNING OF TIME I KNEW THAT YOU WOULD BE MY MASTER, YOU AND NO OTHER. YOU WANT TO SAVE PEOPLE, YOU WANT TO HELP THEM, AND EVEN I AM NOT OUTSIDE OF YOUR COMPASSION. YOU GIVE ME MEANING, HARRY POTTER. DEATH HAS MEANING BECAUSE YOU LIVE. 

Harry sighs and sat up from where he is lying in the void and finds himself sitting in an abandoned version of Diagon alley outside of a coffee shop that had most certainly never decided to exist. 

“So what, then? I’m alive forever so other people can die? So you can be happy? I have to live forever to just continue to be the world’s fucking savior.” Death seems amused and sad all at once.

YOU WILL BE MY DELIVERANCE. WHEN ALL HAS RETURNED TO NOTHINGNESS, YOU WILL RETURN ME. UNTIL THEN, YOU ARE HOPE, HARRY POTTER. YOU ARE HOPE. 

“I just hope to stay here, in this thing that feels like it might be the end.” Harry crosses his arms like a child. Death rumbles in a way Harry recognizes as laughter. 

THIS PLACE DOES NOT EXIST. SURELY YOU CAN SEE THAT. DO NOT WORRY, YOU HAVE SO MANY OPTIONS. I CAN SEND YOU ANYWHERE. BACK IN TIME. FORWARD IN TIME. ELSEWHERE.

“Elsewhere?” Harry asks, interested. 

YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND. 

Harry feels himself beginning to tingle and feels his feet lifting off the ground.

“Now just wait here a minute, I never said I wanted to go anywhere, I just wanted to know what my options were, I was asking a question, and --” Harry’s eyes were beginning to close.

HAVE FUN MASTER. MAKE FRIENDS. SEND POSTCARDS. 

“You little --”

EMPTY YOUR MIND. STRANGE TIMES ARE AHEAD. REMEMBER THAT NOT EVERY ENDING IS ONE OF MINE.

“Oh for the love of --” And Harry is pulled abruptly until all he hears is noise. There’s the sound waves crashing against the shore. There’s the noise of pained wails and tremulous laughter. There’s a dog barking, a sizzle of cooking meat. After so many stolen moments of silence, it’s… deafening.

  
  


***

Harry looks around at where he’s landed curiously. He’s standing in the center of what appears to be a town square, a collection of modestly dressed tall men and women milling about with grief hanging heavy overhead. The sky is filled with grey clouds, promising rain but not delivering. Stray bits of hardy sunlight shine with unmatched daring through the dusting of darkness in the mid-morning sky.

Beyond the square lies a small village crafted in an odd mixture of modernity and ancient history, run-down cabins teeming with technology until the distinction between the past and present exists only in memory. It looks as though Yesterday kissed Tomorrow and refused to let go.

The city rests on fields filled with snow and on docks by a grey sea, the water of the ocean grieving the absence of sun.

There’s an enormous Christmas tree in the center of the square decorated in golden shining lights that seem to be getting their power from sheer power of will only, sparkling brilliantly as a thousand miniature stars. The tree is the only green in this odd, frigid city, Harry’s breaths turning white in the misty air.

  
There’s a banner hanging in the square that says, “Lost, Never Forgotten.”

Harry looks at the men and women who are looking at him with shock, and then -- with hope. He sees it the moment they all recover from his surprise appearance and begin to stare at him with unbridled longing, as though he is the key to whatever their tragedy appears to be.

He straightens his clothing out, self-consciously, and realizes his hands have come away with a light dusting of… ash. He’s covered, he realizes quite suddenly, in ash. He shakes it off.

A tall man with eyes bluer than sapphires and hair the color of spun gold comes striding forward and envelopes Harry in a tight embrace. 

Without knowing what to do, Harry slowly returns it, entwining his arms around the absurdly muscular back of this absurdly muscular man. The man is shaking, he feels the tremors all through his body. There’s growing wetness on the top of Harry’s head. The man, he’s crying.

“Brother, I thought you were dead, I thought you were dead. But you’ve returned to me.” Oh, Harry thinks. I understand this grief.

Harry pulls back gently and the man lets him go, eyes drinking in Harry's face hungrily. He gives the man an apologetic smile. 

“I’m sorry, whoever you are. I’m not your brother.”

The man wipes his tears. “But your eyes…” he says softly, “your magic. You’re not Loki?”

Harry shakes his head. “My name’s Harry. I hope you find him, though.”

The man whispers, “I am Thor,” as if he cannot help himself. “But you… you came from the ash. He's always been a trickster. I thought, surely, Loki wouldn’t have truly died by the hand of Thanos, and I thought, perhaps, the ashes… he’d have found a way to return if anyone could.”

Harry lays a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Loss… it’s the sort of thing that makes us all dream of impossibility. I am truly sorry I’m not who you’re looking for.”

A woman pushes through the crowd and then cups Harry’s cheeks. 

“You came from the ash. Are they coming back?”  
  


“Are who coming back?”

It’s like a dam has been broken. Suddenly all the men and women crowd around him and Thor, throwing out dozens of questions. “Did you see Vanrad?” “How’s Reinn?” “When’s everyone else coming back?” “Are they safe?” “Were you alive the whole time?”

It’s overwhelming to say the least. Harry can feel himself beginning to hyperventilate. He’s not, he can tell, he’s not what these people need. There’s so much tragedy here and it’s not his. He’s given speeches before, for that first war with Voldemort, for the children murdered in World War Three for having been born with magic running through their veins, for the dead in the 4122 Pulmonavirus epidemic. But he lived through each of those terrible moments in history. His words meant something as a survivor (as the man who’s survived far more than any other.) The shared experience of being part of the left behind gave him the ability to, if not always save, at least provide a modicum of comfort to his ever-changing pocket of community.

But these people are not his. This sadness is not one he knows as intimately as the creases on the palm of his hands, as deeply as the smile lines he misses from Ginny’s wide grins, it does not echo in his memory just as loudly as the high giggle of Lily when she first got on a broomstick.

It’s a grief as poignant as any he’s experienced, but it’s theirs, these tall and haunted men and women living in a city above the grey sea, huddled around a glittering Christmas tree and looking to him as though he’s the only light they’ve ever seen.

A warm, large hand, at the base of his spine grounds him. Thor, deep voice rumbling, commands, “Breathe. You’re safe here.” He feels the man exaggerate breathing in and out, and Harry follows suit. He watches his exhales materialize in the air.

“Thank you,” Harry says quietly.

  
The man inclines his head. “You’ve had quite the journey, haven’t you?”

“...Yes.”

The people of the town look at him far more gently, the desperation fading from their faces and melding into something compassionate.

One person, a child, Harry sees, comes forward and tugs on his legs. “Did you… Did you come back from the dead?”

The yearning in the child’s amber eyes reminds Harry that he can still answer the question with some comfort.

Harry kneels down to be of a height with the little boy. “I have.”

The boy asks, “What was it like?”  
  


Harry can see the entire town leaning forward, needing to hear these words the way starving men need food, the way crying children need their parents. 

“I woke up in what looked like a train station. The only person I saw was a mentor, a former teacher I admired, standing by an express. He said that I could go on the train or go... back. So I talked with him for a while, and when the time came… I left through a doorway, and returned to the land of the living.”

A woman is looking at him with tears running down her face. “Was it very cold?”

Harry looks out at the snow dusting this odd town in the middle of winter. “No,” he says, remembering the heat of golden sunlight seeping through the glass windows of King’s Cross. “It was very warm.”

The woman tries to smile. “That’s good. I'm so glad.”

“Do you think others will come back too?” A tall man asks.

Harry doesn’t understand what’s happened here, but he’s afraid to ask. So instead, he replies, “If a door was open to me, it may open for another.”

It’s not an answer. It’s barely a comfort. But in this moment, with ice hanging down from shingled rooftops, with a banner billowing promising those gone will not be forgotten, with a green tree glittering in gold, it seems to be enough.

Thor pulls Harry to his feet. “Come, Traveler Harry, allow me to give you some hospitality for at least the night. It is Yuletide and no one should be alone.”

Harry has nowhere to go, and this man seems just as lonely as Harry’s been for centuries. He understands grief better than perhaps anyone else, and he doesn’t want to be alone either. “I’d like that.”

He follows the man through the crowd, which parts like he and Thor are Moses and they the sea, the two men crafting freedom out of miracles.

They walk over the dirt path and icy ground, into a run-down cabin, oddly reminiscent of the shack where Harry spent his eleventh birthday and was introduced to magic. 

The home is a bit dirty on the inside, but it is far from the worst place Harry has ever stayed. There’s a couch in a large room, bottles of empty beer, and a TV. The kitchen looks fairly empty, but there’s a teapot sitting on a grime covered stove. 

Thor is looking at the place with a sheepish appearance of embarrassment. “It’s just,” the man says, “with all that has happened, I have not been in the right frame of mind to, to be, perhaps what people might have expected of me. Please do not judge me too much.”

Harry ambles over to the kitchen and fills up the kettle with water. “That’s alright,” he says, turning on the stove with a spark of magic and then putting the teapot on the stove. “When you lose the people you love, it takes time to find out who you are again. And often, it’s not… it’s not the person you were before.” Harry thinks back to who he was when he had been 17 and in love, and who he is now, and knows that he’s changed to the point where even Ron wouldn’t recognize him (not all of him, at any rate) anymore. 

Thor is looking at him, eyes wide and pained. “I don’t know how to go on, Traveler Harry. Half the world is gone, and it must be because I failed. If I had not been so arrogant, if I had not sought to prove myself and instead had been more like my brother, cunning and subtle -- if I had gone for the head --”  
  


Harry cuts him off, “The people who survive always feel guilty. It is never your fault for living. But there’s something I do for people when they feel like they can’t go on.”  
  


Thor, voice very small, asks, “What do you do?”

“Everyone feels better with a cup of tea.” As though on cue, the teapot begins to boil and a sound like a whistle echoes through the house. Harry turns off the heat. He gives Thor a look of deep understanding. “When the day is too dark and too cold, you can always put the kettle on.”

Harry finishes making the tea and brings it over to Thor and hands it to the large man. The blonde man takes a sip, not thinking to question where the tea came from (Harry’s Mokeskin,) and relaxes into the cushions.

“It’s warm.” He says. “Thank you, Traveler Harry.”

“Just Harry is fine.”

Thor gives Harry a look that’s all warm eyes, some frost thawing from the tragedy engraved in his stormy blue irises. “Just Harry, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki: So you noticed he was a magic-user, and you just assumed he was me?  
> Thor: He also had green eyes  
> Loki: That's racist, brother  
> Thor: He is not a frost giant. Are you not of different races?  
> Loki: You just implied all magic users look the same. He's like three feet tall! I'm a God...  
> Thor: Well, he's also more beautiful than you, so perhaps I was just missing your unfortunate features  
> Loki: You are both so easy and so difficult to hate  
> Thor: I miss you even now  
> Loki: Don't worry too much. I am very poor at staying dead  
> Harry: And I'm the absolute worst at dying at all


	3. Keep me Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor is okay with magic because he's Asgardian. Korg is just a nice guy. Next chapter more people will be confused by Harry. This one is all about the feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks. Sorry about how long it's been since the last update. This story will be updated in the next week and then should settle down to about twice a month. I've just been busy but it's a break now. Thanks for sticking with me XD
> 
> Leave a comment if you'd be so kind and drop a kudos if you feel so inclined

When Harry wakes, it’s to the feel of a hard body pressed to his back. He is uncomfortably warm but for some reason, he doesn’t mind that his feet feel like they are touching miniature fires. He’s not cold any longer, and he’s been cold for such a long time.

He hasn’t woken up in a bed with someone for at least three centuries. He’s loved twice since Ginny, and each was harder than the last. He feels each of his former lovers’ phantom lips press against his brows, his eyes, his  _ lips _ most nights before he feigns sleep in an empty and freezing bed. He has sex, of course he does, but after he’s done with whatever person thought he was attractive, he’ll zip up his trousers, tousle his hair, and return to wherever he’s staying alone. (It’s easier that way. Because when people start to kiss him more than once, when they wind their hands in his silky hair and stroke -- he wants so very badly for them to love him. But he’s a strange creature now and the more they know the more they shy away, as all people do, from things that scare them. As he does, from losing a true love yet again.)

He can’t remember the last time he was held for nothing but being held -- the last time someone expected nothing for their comfort. He’s learned to stop searching. But he slept last night, somehow, in this warm bed… with the hard body at his back. And he’s still clothed so nothing untoward happened. Probably.

He vaguely remembers appearing in a new world, universe, time (maybe?), and the odd reaction to ash in this town touched by tragedy.

He wonders about his odd introduction to _elsewhere_ and makes to sit up in the bed of blue crumpled sheets, the cabin walls around them dark wood and empty chip wrappers decorating the floor like metallic confetti. 

As he attempts to straighten himself, the strong mass at his back wraps one sturdy arm around his chest and pulls him back down.

There is a deep rumble and then the command, “Settle,” spoken in a voice no less regal for its sleepiness. 

Harry presses his face back into the pillow. The arm around his chest relaxes slightly and large hands begin to absentmindedly pet his sides.

The sensation is foreign but welcome and Harry closes his eyes, allowing the peace of this unmistakably odd moment to wash over him.

His breaths are coming long and even when the door to the room is thrust open.

Harry opens his eyes to see a being made of… rocks… that is so weird, staring down at him with an expression of immense confusion.

“Thor,” the being says in a surprisingly friendly male voice, “there’s a boy in your bed.”

The man behind him mumbles, “Wassat?”

The rock being seems distressed. “There is a  _ boy  _ in your bed,” he hiss-whispers. His voice, despite its obvious discomfort, remains even-toned and friendly.

Harry, affronted, says, “I’m a man, thank you very little.”

The rock being is getting more and more anxious, but Thor finally wakes up and then sits up, white shirt rippling around his strong muscles.

Harry sits up as well, if only not to be at a disadvantage when staring at the strange rock being.

Thor breaks into a broad smile and spreads his arms as though welcoming a hug. The rock being comes forward and awkwardly clasps Thor around his middle, still staring at Harry.

“Korg! How are you faring, my good man?” Thor booms.

The being -- Korg?-- pulls back and places its hands on Thor’s shoulders. He scans the man’s face.

“I saw you just yesterday and I’m all good man. But there is a man in your bed. Are you being safe? Did you read my pamphlet about safety?”

And Harry grins at the friend of Thor, odd though it (he?) may be.

Thor pats Korg on its (his) back. “Do not worry, loyal friend. This here is Harry and he is a traveler from beyond the Snap. He returned yesterday from ash.”

Korg’s eyes widen and then focus on Harry with ill-concealed hope. “You came back from the Snap?”

Harry is trying to piece together all the pieces of what he’s seen: the banner, the sadness, the ash, the questions about life after death and he feels only regret.

“There was an event here, wasn’t there? For some reason, a lot of people died. Because of a snapshot moment? Did someone snap their fingers? I don't really...” He cuts himself off, not sure how to express his complete confusion without giving everything away.

Thor has one eye that’s brown, Harry realizes. But both still feel blue. The blue eye right now is wider than the brown but both seemed shocked.

“Of course,” Thor breathes, “a regular from Midgard who was Snapped would not have known what happened. Yes, Harry, it was Thanos who did the Snap and took half the universe.”

Harry chokes, “ _ Half the universe?”  _ He looks to Korg to see if it's a joke, an exaggeration, but the laid back rock-creature just looks somber. Harry shakes his head. “Half the universe, Merlin. How’d he manage that?”   
  


Thor shudders. “My failure.”

That doesn’t feel like the full story. So Harry says, “battles are never lost or won by a single man. Don’t get a god-complex just because things didn’t work out well.”   
  


Thor exhales once, sharp and angry. “I am a God.”

Harry again looks to Korg, who just shrugs. “He is, man.”

Harry shakes his head. “No one, even the most powerful person alive, is God.”

Thor reaches beside him and pulls open the drawer of a dresser Harry did not notice due to all the clothing piled around it, and withdraws an odd-looking axe.

“I am the God of thunder, and look at me, alone in a bed with a man who was dead just Yesterday and it was not even I who brought him back.”

This feels like the beginning of a guilt spiral and Harry can tell this man is dealing with a huge amount of survivor’s guilt. Harry relates so strongly he decides to accept the possibility of hatred and discomfort that will come from his telling the truth. It's not as if he can die, he thinks bitterly. What's a bit of being dissected for laughs? It wouldn't be the first time.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, “Well, so you see, I wasn’t dead yesterday.”

Thor tilts his head. “You were alive in the soul stone?”

Harry looks down at his ring. “Em, never been in the soul stone? No one ever is really, in the stone, I mean, you just talk to the dead souls through it? Wait, how do you know about the soul stone?”

Thor’s eyes sharpen from the kind of tired command to a king ready for war. They are intense and dark and disturbed…. Haunted. Harry recognizes the look. He’s worn it so many times for too many battles.

“Who are you?” Thor asks, voice filled with danger. He hasn’t attacked him yet, but Harry can tell it’s a close thing. Thor’s muscles are rippling and Harry believes the man will lunge if he doesn’t like the answer.

“Harry. But you know that. I, um, well I’m from a different place. Elsewhere, I suppose. Like a different universe if I had to guess.”

Thor and the rock being, Korg, stare at him. Harry stares back. Korg breaks up the tense moment by saying, “I’m from a different planet. Most of us are. We get it.”

Thor looks crestfallen. "A different universe," he murmurs, “...you didn’t have the Snap there, did you? What was the whole thing about you having come back from the dead, then? Were you lying?”   
  


Harry shakes his head, aware that he is still in the bed with the man questioning him. “No. That wasn’t a lie. I have died before -- and come back -- but that’s the thing. Death doesn’t really stick with me. Won’t for a while, or so I’m told.”

Thor and Korg are silent and stare at one another as the self-proclaimed God of thunder twirls his axe in his hands. 

“You were in possession of the soul stone?”

Harry, feeling a bit like an idiot but mostly like he has less than nothing to lose, holds up his hand where the Gaunt ring rests and has rested for more than three millennia.    
  


“Here,” he says, “I’ve still got it. It’s called the resurrection stone more commonly than soul stone, but I’ve heard it both ways.”

Korg shrugs, “I think it’s a different stone. The other one was yellow, wasn’t it?”   
  


Thor gently holds Harry’s hand, turning it around in enormous palms and running his fingers over the stone in the ring. “...Yes,” he replies absentmindedly, stroking little circles on the back of Harry’s hand, “I do not believe this is the same stone at all. Did this bring you to us, little traveler?”

“In a way?”

Thor abruptly, still holding Harry’s hand, stands and guides Harry off the bed with him. “Come,” he commands, “You shall tell me your story over breakfast and then I shall tell you mine. My brother was a better liar than you, I am sure, and his stories were told such that you could not imagine any other truth but the one he gave you. Your stories are told badly and with missing pieces -- all the more reason to believe they are real.” 

And Thor guides Harry, one hand at the small of his back, into the cramped main room of the cabin from the night before, Korg -- who is very tall -- walking beside them. 

***

Thor and Korg seemed inclined to buy their breakfast out -- apparently, Thor’s been gorging exclusively on fried foods and donuts since the Snap, and he has no interest in pulling himself together to make anything fresh.

Harry, being an expert on guilt and coping mechanisms, asks if he can buy some things at the grocery store and make food instead. He says, voice full of vulnerability, “It just soothes me. Cooking helps.”   
  


So the three of them toddle off to a rather small grocery store full of sad, tall people, milling about listlessly after their first Yule without half their community. It’s heartbreaking. There are two women staring at a bottle of -- is that  _ mead? --  _ and crying. One woman says, “This year she was to join us at the adult’s table, we were going to have a toast about her bravery and gift her a bow and her first taste of golden wine but her seat was empty, do you see, it was empty…. And now I can’t, I can’t --” 

She breaks off into deep and heavy sobs and the other woman clasps her in a tight hug. “I know,” the other woman is saying, “I know. Let it out now, let it out.”

Harry averts his eyes and buys some staples with money Thor gives him. They leave the store in silence, the whispers and cries of those in mourning creating a haunting harmony to the howling wind's melody. Harry looks at the large man on the walk back to the cabin, hands laden with groceries, and says, “I’ll pay you back.”

Thor barks a humorless laugh. “I am a king, Harry. I can provide for one scrawny boy.”   
  


“Harry’s not a boy. He's a man,” Korg pipes up. “He told us earlier.”

Thor frowns at Korg and then takes the grocery bags out of Harry’s hands and leads the small group back to the dilapidated cabin. 

Once they return, Harry falls into the familiar pattern of baking scones and frying up some bacon with eggs. He’s been out of the Dursley house for more than three thousand years -- he spent less than eighteen years in that house -- and yet the habits have endured. He can’t feel calm unless he makes a good breakfast. He wasn’t lying, he finds the repetitive motion of scrambling the eggs, stirring in a single square of butter until the white melts down, browning at the edges and smelling of caramel and smoked meat, soothing in ways he cannot describe.

As the house begins to smell of orange and bread from the scones and bacon and eggs, Harry feels something settle in his chest. He’s a far way from anywhere he’s ever been before.  _ Elsewhere.  _ It’s an odd, sad world he’s found himself living inside. And yet… he thinks Death perhaps was right. This is better than he felt two days ago, lying on a sand dune and praying to finally be granted eternal rest.

The thought of tomorrow doesn’t make him want to tear his heart into nothingness. 

Thor and Korg are sitting on a moth-eaten couch and playing some form of a primitive muggle video game (Harry’s seen much better now the few times he’s ventured into the muggle world -- but then again, it appears to still be the twenty-first century in this universe. They have time to catch up.)

When he finishes the breakfast, he calls out to the men on the couch and Korg ambles over but Thor yells, “Noobmaster69, today I will vanquish you once and for all!”

It seems the vanquishing was not to be, for not even a minute later, Thor throws off his headset with an ungodly scream and then stomps over to the cramped kitchen counter. 

“Rough luck,” Korg says.

“Noobmaster69 has another thing coming if he thinks I’ll let him stay as belligerent as he has been. He needs to learn respect.”

Harry slides Thor some eggs, bacon, and a scone. Thor begins eating with a murmured, “Looks good, Harry.”

They silently eat, Korg smiling happily and Thor shoveling the food down as though it will suddenly disappear if he doesn’t eat it fast enough. He finishes the plate in record time and then smashes it against the ground. “Another!” He says. Harry gapes. Thor looks confused for a moment, then his eyes widen and he flushes, “I apologize. I learned years ago from the Lady Jane that this is not how Midguardians express their enjoyment.” He breathes. “Thank you, Harry, for the delightful food. Might I have some more?”

Harry laughs. “Of course. And I think we promised each other some stories.”   
  


T hor nods and then looks down at the ruined dish. “Oh,” he sighs, “I only had three plates.”

Harry looks at him, raises a brow, and then mutters, “Reparo.” Immediately the plate knits itself back together and Harry wordlessly summons it to his hands. 

Korg continues eating and says, “Cool trick.”

Thor does not seem startled. Instead, he seems mesmerized, “A  seiðr. We are blessed, then, little magic breather. I would be honored to exchange histories with you.”

***

The three of them talk all day, over at least six cups of tea, Harry casting warming charms so that the drinks never go cold. 

He and Thor only speak of the first few years of their lives. Thor angrily interjects after almost every year of his Hogwarts experience, commending Harry on his bravery and cursing every adult for their negligence. (Harry doesn’t talk about the Dursleys. That’s private.)

He speaks of Ginny and her smile lines and how she looked when she waddled like a madwoman, eight months pregnant and more fearsome than a nesting Hungarian Horntail. He speaks of James’ brilliant mind and how he and Hermione would have debates none of the rest of the family could follow. He speaks of Lily, how she was eight years old when she broke into the garden shed and went flying on her older brother’s broomstick and how Ginny found out and didn’t do anything but cast a cushioning charm on the grass, remembering her own stolen moments of flight. He speaks of Albus’s quiet confidence, how his youngest son learned he didn’t need to yell to command a room, how he wore power and kindness so thick it wrapped him up like a cloak.

He tries to say what it was to be a father and see in a country halfway across the world a eulogy in a translated paper -- a blurb to the life of the most beautiful boys and girl to have ever lived -- and to know that you missed their last moments and that they think they’re going to meet you again, that they think you’re waiting for them, and that you’re not -- that you can’t join them.

And when Harry cannot go on any further, Korg speaks of his own story. The rock being manages to explain his revolution, imprisonment and escape quickly and in an even tone.

And Thor speaks against the setting sun, the sky shining through grime-streaked windows to color the blonde of his beard the colors of a dying flame, embers of red and purple bursting through the cold.

The God speaks of growing up in a world made of gold with a brother younger, smarter, and less beloved than him. He speaks of his arrogance, of his exploits, of being a prince and knowing he would one day be a king.

He speaks of wars fought in adolescence when ego outweighed pragmatism, of how he was cast out of his home by his own father, and told he would not be able to hold a weapon forged in a star until he was worthy.

Harry curses Odin as often as Thor did Dumbeldore, both of them laughing over men with white beards using love as a weapon. 

And Thor speaks of Lady Jane, of their embraces and their separation. He speaks of his brother Loki and a battle and New York and a group of impossible people and an evil army and evil stones and something called Ulton and…

The moon has risen. Korg sets off to go to his own little cabin. He’s been sleeping over with Thor more often than not, but he does have his own place and he looks at Harry and Thor and says, “You two have more to discuss.”

So Thor holds out a hand and Harry takes it. “Will you stay with me again tonight? You’ve been lonely for a long time. I have as well. Allow me to keep you warm tonight.”   
  


And Harry nods because it’s true. “Please,” he says, shivering. 

They clean themselves up in a bathroom that is more dirt than tile and go into the small bedroom, stepping over crinkling wrappers and Thor pulls Harry under the covers, pressing a kiss to the smaller man’s forehead. 

“We should talk more in the morning, but for now, I would just like to hold you, brave lion.”

Harry blushes down to his toes at the nickname. “Then hold me,” he says, “Keep me warm.” It should be awkward, to be held in the arms of a man he barely knows. But he understands tragedy, they've both shared so much of their stories, and really, Harry has nothing to lose. 

He falls asleep wrapped in an embrace for the second time in three centuries. Tomorrow the sun will rise, golden and insistent, but for tonight he finds peace in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Korg: I feel like Harry and Thor are going to do the horizontal tango soon  
> Tony Stark: Who is Harry and you said Thor is getting laid?  
> Korg: He's a magic-user. And yes. Thor is getting laid.  
> Tony Stark: Magic-user. Damn. I do not like the sound of that. Sounds like that's something I'll need to check out in the next chapter.  
> Natasha Romanov: Sounds like something I'll check out. I am the spy after all.  
> Colonel Rhodes: Guys, we're all going to be in the next chapter.
> 
> Noobmaster69: AHAHAHAHA You're all LOSERS


	4. Shield Companions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people think Harry's Loki again. It's like... no one can imagine a new magic-user in the MCU who's not Loki (Except for Wong, and Doctor Strange and Wanda and... but that's NOT the point. Okay?) Black hair and green eyes and magic = Loki, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks. Sorry it's been sooo long since the last update. Em. Hopefully once a month updates? This'll probably be about ten chapters, maybe as few as nine or as many as twelve -- so we're already at least 33% done. Congratulations!
> 
> Leave a comment please to encourage me to go on, or a kudos, if I've done well enough in your esteem, or if the end notes make you smile.

Harry hadn’t meant to get used to the feeling of waking up in a large bed, back pressed to the warm man behind him. He hadn’t meant to get used to the feel of stubble pressed faintly into his neck, used to large hands wrapping around his waist and chest and pulling him back onto strong muscles. He hadn’t meant to start to think of a small wooden cottage in a town defined by redefining itself and what it means to be living as _home_ , but… he had. 

It took two weeks before he stopped pretending to Thor that he was going to leave and go somewhere else. Thor had been making comments, repeatedly, of how Harry need not be anywhere other than here, in New Asgard. Korg had started telling Harry first how much he was helping the God of Thunder seem so much healthier, and then, Korg began telling Harry how much he enjoyed his company.

Between the mornings of tea that Harry brewed and Thor blearily drank, the afternoons Harry spent finally cleaning up the mess that Thor’s home had become, and then the evenings the two of them spent together, either training for battles they might never fight or using spells (well Harry used them, Thor “directed") to charm the house larger, warmer, more comfortable, Harry had found himself hoping for more than just waking up and going to sleep with the man who’d taken him in. He thinks, sometimes, of what it might be like to be with the man in all senses.

With every passing day, the ache Harry's lived with for four thousand years seems to be a bit easier to bear. He finds himself dreaming of tomorrows for the first time since his children died. He has plans for the sunrise, to make hot chocolate instead of tea and surprise Thor. (Thor drops the mug and demands, with a cheeky grin, “Another!” Harry rolls his eyes and fixes the mug wand-less, it’s become a kind of morning tradition.)

He finds himself looking forward to Korg coming over and attempting to make banana bread in the oven Harry charmed into existence because Korg ate Harry’s banana bread once and became determined to learn how to make it himself. (“This is the taste of friendship, Harry. I will learn!”) So Korg comes over many late mornings and busies himself in the kitchen, making a mess of flour that Harry will clean up, and making jokes that cause Thor’s laughter to boom. 

Thor and Harry speak to each other every night before sleep claims them. Sometimes their conversations are on the inconsequential and mundane: is silk better than Egyptian cotton? Chocolate or lemon? If you could have a pet panda, would you want one?

Thor speaks of his father, a complicated figure, and his mother, less so, and his brother — a daring trickster, too angry for his own good and yet deeply complicated at the end. Thor says, “I don’t even know if Loki himself knew how much of the way he behaved was an act, but when there was no room for anything other than honor, he claimed himself a prince of Asgard and my brother. And I — I wish I could grant that warrior's death with the praise it no doubt deserves, but I’m angry, Harry. I’m so angry that he’s gone. And I miss him. Even though he killed so many people, I miss him. Does that — does that ever go away?"

Harry’s spoken of Ginny and his beautiful children enough to know the answer. “It doesn’t go away, not really. The thing about loss is you still feel its jagged edges no matter how much you grow. What happened will never be okay. But… time gives us the tools so that one day, _we_ can be okay. That’s the best we can hope for.”

  
  
Thor wraps Harry up that night tight, like he is afraid of his traveler too slipping away, and in the morning looks down at the smaller man’s green eyes like they hold all the treasure in the world and asks, voice low and deep, “Can I kiss you, ‘Just Harry?’”

And Harry, tired and warm and cozy and well on his way to being helplessly enamored says, “Only if you get on with it.”

Their first kiss is long and sweet, a greeting as much as it is a beginning and culmination, a soft sigh of coming home even as it ignites a fire that’s been brewing from the moment Harry emerged from the ash and met Thor’s blue eyes, the color of the frozen sea. 

The second kiss is far more heated and leads to a third, and one thing leads to another, and then Harry grows used to baths against a muscled chest, the feel of large hands unbuttoning his shirt with single-minded care and the feel of faint stubble against his groin. 

The people of New Asgard come to know Harry in small bits and pieces. He heals the knee of a boy who slipped on ice and meets the boy’s parents. He talks a woman down from jumping off the cliff at the edge of town by reminding her that just as she is missing her daughter — and he understands, Merlin does he understand — her mother, heart still beating and smile lined creased — would miss _her_. 

He meets the members of New Asgard sometimes with Thor, and sometimes with Korg, and most often alone. He is regarded by them as a kind of magic guardian. They call him a Seiðr but they also name him a Protector, sent to even the balance from beyond. 

He does not know how to tell them that he is being saved by them far more than he is giving back. But he conjures fireworks for the children and brews potions for the heart-aches, and little by little, the diamond snow melts into a crisp spring, and as the first snow buttercup pokes up from the damp earth, Thor pulls him into his enormous side (Harry fits in that space just right) and whispers, “I love you, Harry.”  
  
And Harry, watching as the world of death gives way to new life, hearing the cries of a newborn child he helped deliver says, “I love you too.”

***

It’s early morning and though the sun is streaming through the now clear windows, Thor is still deeply asleep. He’s not a morning person, Harry’s found, but that’s perfect because normally Harry is content enough to either snuggle back down in bed with the God or get up early to make tea by the time Thor stumbles out into the kitchen.

This morning, Harry wakes not because he is well-rested and at an end of his dreams, but because his wards have been tripped. Someone is trying to get into his home. They won’t be able to enter, of course, as far as Harry can tell he is the only wizard in this entire world (something equal parts lonely and relieving — he’s been helping out wizardkind for millennia and they’re the sort that are easy and difficult to love),but it’s still confusing and a bit concerning. 

Harry, with some difficulty, successfully slides out of Thor’s hold and pulls on a fluffy black robe. After a moment’s consideration (and wow, the wards are informing him that the people attempting entry are getting _aggressive_ ) he slides on a pair of soft trousers. It seems bad form to meet potentially hostile individuals without anything covering his lower regions. (Not that Thor seems to mind, but then again, it would be hard to do what they do most nights if Harry or Thor wore their trousers to bed.)

He then puts on his fuzzy yellow slippers (the ones that look like baby chicks) and softly pads out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him and putting up a silencing ward for good measure. He would hate to wake Thor for something as simple as dealing with a couple of wannabe villains. Unless Thanos is standing outside their home, Harry is fairly confident the people now attempting to knock down the door, _honestly,_ will serve no issue.

Harry swiftly walks through the newly expanded living room and kitchen, both decorated with warm tones of brown and gold detail and takes a deep breath before opening the door. 

He quickly throws up a shield when he sees a beam of light coming toward him and it was fortunate that he did so. Outside the door, a man in a metal suit has his arms raised and is firing repulsers. There are several dangerous looking individuals behind the suited man and for a moment Harry is utterly confused before he thinks back to Thor’s stories. Ah, he does know these people.

“Would you please stop firing on my house, Dr. Stark?”

The man in the suit … Anthony, if Harry’s remembered the first name right, lowers his gauntlet. 

“Who are you?” He asks, voice sounding rather electronic from the suit. 

“I am Harry,” Harry says cheerfully, “Thor’s told me all about you guys. He calls you his shield brothers and sister. Would you care to come in for some tea?”  


They exchange glasses before a redhead with a somewhat awful blonde dye job pushes through the group and says, “That would be lovely.”  


  
She’s mimicking his accent, just slightly. Just enough that it should make him feel a bit at ease. It doesn’t help much because he knows all about Natasha Romonaff, but he does appreciate the effort. He stands aside and motions the Avengers forward. “Welcome, welcome,” he says, “If you would kindly take off your shoes there’s a rack to your left and slippers will appear in your size by your feet once you come into the house proper.”  
  
This information is met with some confusion, but Natasha enters first and dutifully removes her leather boots, and then discovers that indeed, a pair of blue slippers just her size have appeared — as if by magic — by her feet.

She says nothing. The iron suit retracts and seems to stand guard as Anthony stark, dressed in a suit that does nothing to hide how thin he is, unhealthily, so, enters next. He says, “Yeah my shoes stay on, stranger-boy. You don’t mess with perfection.” 

Harry smiles serenely. “Have you walked outside in those shoes before?”

Anthony gives Harry a clearly practiced arrogant grin, “I never wear the same pair twice. Made of money, and all that.”

  
  
Harry nods. “Well alright then, off you pop.” He takes the time to help James Rhodes remove his shoes because it seems like the brace is giving him some trouble -- he'll have to look into healing the man's legs later -- but then wanders back to the kitchen because the avengers are old enough to know how to take off their own shoes.

  
  
Clint, Bruce, and the Captain of America (Roger??) all come through and into the house with little difficulty and a good deal of frowns and then settle on Harry's deep couch. Clint, however, yells when red slippers appear next to his feet, “What the hell was that?”

Anthony Stark seems to agree very deeply with the sentiment. "A challenging puzzle. I wonder if he uses magnets and a hidden department... or maybe there's some kind of subspace and portal situation..."

Rhodes says, softly, "You can't make sense of everything, Tones."  
  


The man in question grins, "But I damn well try."

  
Harry, communicating with the wards while fixing some tea, tells the wards to close the front door and be nice to his guests, and then says, pouring a bit of extra milk into Thor’s mug because that’s how his man likes it, “Well this is all magic, of course.”

  
He does not blink this time even as a good number of lethal weapons are trained on his person.

Clint says, voice wary, “Loki?”

Harry sighs. “No, man of Arrows. Although, Thor thought so too when he first saw me. Something about green eyes and black hair and magic equals Loki to you folks. I’m not sure why.”

Anthony settles into the couch looking very angry and Harry slips a bit of nutrition potion into the man’s cup of tea and sets out biscuits on a tray before floating all the food and beverages over to the coffee table and taking a seat on an armchair across from the Avengers. The couch they are all seated on has expanded to fit the six of them comfortably, although all of them look rather uncomfortable.

“Tea?” Harry offers, indicating the floating saucers. 

Captain of America, clearly a young man raised with manners, says, “Oh, um, yes, thank you.”

Some of his friends choose to glare at him, but Natasha says, “Without milk, if you would,” and Bruce says, “Tea sounds great.”

Harry easily flicks his hand and the proper tea ends up with the proper person. Clint and Anthony categorically refuse which is really too bad, because Anthony would benefit from the nutrition help and Clint seems to be in deep mourning and tea always makes people feel better. James Rhodes seems to be not drinking his tea as an act of solidarity. 

Anthony says, spreading his legs wide on the couch and looking entirely too comfortable for someone so on edge, “I’m afraid I only drink the highest quality coffee.” He even sounds a little bit sad in a "what-can-you-do?" kind of way.

  
Natasha smirks and mocks, “Instant?”

  
  
Stark levels her with a glare that would make Snape green with envy and Harry says, “I can get you some coffee if you’d like.”

James Rhodes mutters, "Doubtful."

  
  
“Oh how unfortunate for me, Gandalf, I’ve already had my morning cup,” Stark says in a somewhat hostile yet condescending tone. Harry is suitably impressed with the power display and is content to drink his own tea and eat a selection of his biscuits.

The scene feels far more domestic than Harry is sure the Avengers are used to, the group of them sitting down in a homey living room and eating a light breakfast. 

The silence is broken when Thor stumbles out into the hall, bare-chested and wearing only red plaid pajama bottoms, his eight abs on glorious, gleaming display. 

“Harry, love, why did you get out of bed?”  


  
The Avengers look at Harry sharply as Thor comes round the bend and sets his eyes on their guests. 

A beam breaks out on the man’s face. “Friends Anthony and Natasha and Clint and Bruce and Steve — how wonderful it is to see you all!” 

He sweeps Harry up in a huge hug and spins him around. “Did you want to surprise me with this gift of my friends?” He asks, before settling back down on the armchair Harry had previously been occupying, the wizard tucked into his lap.

Harry’s neck turns red as the Avengers watch him and Thor with uncharacteristic surprise. “Em, no. They kind of just showed up?”

  
  
“A happy coincidence!” Thor booms. 

“Yeah, no, point-break,” Stark interjects, “I’m afraid we’re not here for a social call.”

Thor seems to droop. “Right,” he says in forced cheer, “Of course not. That would be ridiculous, coming all this way just to see me.” Only Natasha and Bruce (who is shockingly green in this light despite Harry having been warned) have the decency to look contrite.

Harry squeezes Thor’s hand as if it to be saying, “I’m here for you, babe — winky face, eggplant — don’t worry.”

Thor squeezes back. 

“So why are you here?” Harry asks. 

“We’ve been getting energy readings here that are off the charts,” Bruce says, “To the point we wondered if there was somehow another infinity stone.”

Stark leans forward. “It’s not just wondering. There has to be. That’s the only thing capable of readings like these.”

Harry’s eyes travel down to his left ring finger. The soul stone sits there, a reminder of a family line lost to madness and ambition. 

“Er. Yeah. So I might be from another dimension, and well, I’ve got a soul stone?” Harry tries. It’s clearly a terrible explanation, but in his defense, Harry’s been working very hard to keep Stark’s teacup from tipping down the man’s throat whenever he opens his mouth because it seems the teacup has developed its own opinions about Stark’s obvious ill-health in the eight or so minutes it’s been enchanted. (This is the problem, Harry thinks, with being as old as he is. He has an absolute knack for magic and tends to make things so much more powerful than they have any reason to be.)

As it stands, Harry delivers his shocking revelation while attempting to uncharm the teacup, whereupon it snootily spins in the air and then transfigures the tea within its confines to coffee as if to remind Harry, “I can help the poor man if you’d just let me.”

While Stark and Banner seem not to notice the dance with the teacup, everyone else certainly does, and it looks as if Captain of America: Steve is amused by the whole thing. The teacup breaks free of Harry’s suggestion to leave Stark alone and begins to happily bop about the billionaire’s head, attempting to get the man to drink.

Finally Stark begins to say, most likely about the bomb Harry’s just dropped about possessing a soul stone, “What the fuck—“ but the teacup sees its opportunity and with no sense of decorum, tips itself gently into Stark’s open mouth. 

His eyes bug open but he reflexively swallows and happily, the teacup settles down on the table, turning around once in smug satisfaction.

Natasha takes the opportunity to say, “Who did you kill for the stone?”

Harry cocks his head, considering. “Myself, I think.” 

Captain of America: Steve seems utterly confused. “But then you would be dead, son.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m not nearly young enough for you to call son, son. And well I should be dead many times over but I’ve never been and I’m certainly not going to start now.” His lightning scar, faded but present, is a reminder to the fact that he really should have died before he could talk, and yet. Harry is singularly excellent at doing the impossible.

  
Thor adds with his chin on Harry’s shoulder, in an entirely gloating voice, “He’s immortal.” 

Stark finishes swallowing the coffee. “Just because that was good doesn’t mean it wasn’t bizarre. This is all firmly in the 'very bizarre' territory. What do you mean ‘another dimension?’”

  
  
“Right,” Harry says, “So Death told me that I’d tried committing suicide one too many times and then the bastard was like, ‘do you want to go elsewhere?’ And I was like, ‘elsewhere, what’s that?’ And then Death was like, ‘have fun, little master,’ and then I emerged here from the ash not realizing that it was a big deal to do that. You know, because of Mr. Purple faced-Snappy-Snappy.” 

“Thanos, you mean?” Captain America: Steve asks. 

“Yeah,” Harry answers. "Him."

Clint takes a sip of his tea as though under great strain. “I fucking hate that guy but I also fucking hate magic,”is what he says. 

Harry snuggles back into Thor. “There’s a lot to hate about both. But now that I have all of you here,"

  
  
Stark says, “Now that I've gotten all of us here,”

Rhodes says, "Are we really going to just ignore the part where he said, 'after I tried to commit suicide one too many times?'"

Natasha lightly kicks the man and says, "Yes. We'll come back to it."

“Well,” Harry says, “I'd rather not go back to that but sure. we can do that later. Now that Stark has assembled us all, after you finish interrogating me—“  


“It’s just a conversation,” comes Natasha’s gentle tone.  


“Fine then after this conversation,” Harry continues, “What’s the plan to take down Thanos?”

Captain of America: Steve looks at Thor with a raised brow. “If he doesn’t turn out to be a mass-murderer, I’d say he’s a keeper.”

  
  
Harry can feel Thor’s smile against his neck. “On the contrary, friend Steve, he’s a keeper either way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teacup: I'll just be leaving with Dr. Stark, then.  
> Harry: No, you will not 'just be leaving with Dr. Stark.' You are a TEACUP. You don't get to make those sorts of decisions.  
> Teacup: I heard Dr. Stark listens to a COMPUTER more than he listens to you human people, so I bet he WOULD let me make these sorts of decisions.  
> Harry: But he's a muggle. He can't renew your charm.  
> Teacup: Some people are worth becoming inanimate objects for.  
> Harry: What on earth?  
> Teacup: When Mr. Aaren borrowed me, his daughter Anitra watched frozen and I learned a lot about how people should treat the life they create  
> Harry: You know what? Fine! Go with Dr. Stark, see if I care.
> 
> Tony Stark: Boy Wonder and Teacup? Do I get a say in this?


	5. Running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii folks sorry it's been so long I've been busy and sad and just life sneaks up on you sometimes, you feel? I'm posting this a day late soooo ~ forgive me?
> 
> This chapter is not my *ahem* best, but I promise the next one will be better. 
> 
> BUT ANYWAY thanks to everyone who's reading this and hope this at least helps to sate you a bit before the next (superior) installment.

Stark rubs his hands together on Harry’s expanded couch and says, “Right, well we’re burning daylight so might as well go on and get to somewhere we can do some action. I’ve got places to go, people to see, yada, yada, a pregnant wife, so let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Harry files this new information away in a folder of his mindscape. He can feel Thor’s smile at the base of his neck and the god booms, “Man of Iron, I extend my felicitations on this wondrous occasion.”

  
  
Harry, from where he is still pressed against Thor’s chest allows himself a private smile from remembering the first time Ginny was pregnant. He remembers her little waddles and the way her face got red from exertion. 

“Try to get catch up on your sleep while you still can,” Harry advises, “infants are murder on schedules. Also, skin-on-skin contact is important so that your baby will develop an attachment to you as the father.”

“Why do you know that?” Steve asks and turns to Clint, “Why does he know that?” He returns his gaze to Harry. “You look barely fifteen.”

Harry shrugs, “Stopped aging at seventeen. Still had three children.”

Sharply, Romanov prompts, “You  _ had  _ three children?”

Clint snorts. “What, do wizard men carry the babies?”

“Well some do, but my wife was the one who carried my kids. No, I just said 'had' because I’m immortal.” Harry says by way of explanation. Understanding dawns on all faces but Steve’s. For the captain’s benefit Harry adds, “My children were not.” 

There is a long moment of horrified silence. 

Thor knows Harry tells enough at this time to take charge and he scoops Harry into his arms and asks, “Shall we go?”

And thus the Earth’s mightiest heroes and one over-enthusiastic teacup board the quinjet, an odd kind of plane, senseless chatter filling up the loss that seeks to choke them all.    
  


  
  
  


New York is different than Harry remembers. New Asgard was a place he’d never been before. The oddity of the town hadn’t bothered him. It had been a welcome change even. But…, New York is missing all the things Harry had grown to love about the city over the 4,000 years of his existence.

He remembers the first time he came to America decked out in designer sunglasses to hide his green eyes and somehow still ended up at MACUSA headquarters because he’d been an idiot and just wanted to check out the Woolworth building. 

He’d spent a few nights at the Blind Pig enjoying the feel of 1920s that had persisted until the late 2050s when Harry’d first visited. Magic was everywhere in those days. 

This New York does not have the Blind Pig. This New York has the Woolworth building but MACUSA is not within its confines. (Harry checked.)

There are no wizards anywhere in this strange odd world. He’d known that already so he’s not surprised. Still, being in a place he remembers he keeps looking over his shoulder expecting to see a man in brightly colored robes scurry past and the rest of New York turn a blind eye to the crazy man with a stick. 

But instead he sees semi-familiar buildings covered in scorch marks and graffiti. Windows are boarded up all over. There are flowers littering the streets, some new and some dead, and most dying. 

He’d asked Stark about all the petals and why they were out on the asphalt and the man answered, “When there are no bodies to bury, roads become graves,” and that was the end of that. 

It’s dark out and the sun is just barely beginning to peek up from its slumber. Harry is leaning against a crumbling wall as mists roll in the early morning and ripple around his slight frame. He casts a warming charm and relaxes into the steady breaths his lungs still make even in this world so far from where he comes from. 

He’s been in New York for two weeks now and between talks with the Avengers on how to take down Thanos, odd verbal spars with Romanov that always leave him wrong-footed, and his relentless search for the ingredients he needs to heal Rhodes’ legs, he’s starting to get a little overwhelmed.

So Thor had said to him at 3am when he still couldn’t sleep, “Go outside and clear your head, my love. I think it will do you some good. I know you need to be alone sometimes.”

And Harry had kissed Thor slow and sweet and said, “I think you’re right. I'll be outside for a litte while.”

So here Harry stands, looking at an alien New York and breathing out white puffs into the winter air. 

He’s calm for a long time and enjoying the little things this broken new york has to offer -- brighter stars because fewer buildings have their lights on, quieter streets because literally half the city is gone.

There’s horror there too that settles. This New York is not his and even if he were from this world, it would still be  _ Wrong.  _

The sun is just barely cresting over cracked concrete when Harry sees a group of five women, all weather-worn and in different shapes, sizes, and colors, walking toward him. They are all wearing a tri-colored ribbon, silver, white and red, on their breasts. 

The youngest looks about twenty-five and the oldest is well into her seventies. They raise their hands in a sign of greeting. The oldest woman says as they approach, “You lost, hun?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m alright.” The women all exchange glances. 

Another speaks up. “Hey, do you need us to walk you somewhere? It’s not safe for kids to be out alone at this hour.”

Harry shakes his head once more. “I’m fine, thank you though.”

He looks at them all with an analytical eye to determine the threat they may or may not pose. They seem concerned as opposed to threatening. The youngest of the group speaks up. “Do you have anywhere to go, hun?”

She says it gently and full of understanding. This is not the first time, Harry instinctively knows, that any of these women have seen a child on the streets with no one to care for them and nowhere to go.  _ Half the universe disappeared. How many kids were orphaned? Holy hell, how many? _

Harry is aware all at once that he’s wearing an ill-fitting t-shirt with a hole and a pizza stain (thanks, Thor,) and even though he’s cast a warming charm it is still technically freezing outside and he does not outwardly appear dressed for the cold. He’s also aware that now that he’s no longer bothering to drink an aging potion he looks fairly young. 

Ron used to make fun of Harry’s svelte 172 cm after the war. He’d say, “Mate, when are you gonna fill out? You look like one of those porcelain dolls Hermione’s mum collects.”

Harry’d be obliged to say something along the lines of, “When are you gonna go grey mate? Your hair looks like one of Petunia’s carrots.”   
  


Then they’d both grimace at the reminder of Harry’s relatives and then Ron would say, “But you love my hair, don’t you Harry?”   
  


And Harry, never one to lie, would say, “I love carrots too.”   


Ron would say, “Sod off,” and then they’d go to a pub and meet Hermione and Draco and Neville and Luna after long days of work. 

The aging potion helped Harry fill out a bit, but he always runs small. So he knows right now, 17 in appearance and shorter than average with big old green eyes, he could easily pass for any age between 14 and 25. He just has one of those faces. 

Draped in oversized clothing though, he bets he’s leaning toward the younger side. And he’s just spent the last few minutes in silence and gone a bit teary-eyed thinking of his first friends and now he’s sure that’s not helping look like an adult. 

“...Yeah,” Harry says at last, “I’ve got a roof over my head if that’s what you mean.”

His words are clearly not a comfort to these odd-warrior women. “How old are you, sweetheart?” The youngest asks. 

_ Much older than you, sweetheart,  _ Harry doesn’t say. 

“My body’s 17.” He answers if only to be believable and not lie. He tries to avoid lying these days. It helps him feel grounded.

He hears one of them whisper to another, “Bullshit. I say 15 at the oldest.”

Harry asks, “Who are you guys?”

They blink. The oldest says, “We’re the Archers of Artemis, hun. Been around for ten months. You know, the women who protect the children and other women after the rapture?” 

A woman hits the oldest and hisses, “Don’t call it that. The avengers call it the Snap.”

The older woman rolls her eyes. “Like anyone believes all that purple alien mumbo jumbo. Anyway, hun, we’ve been around a long while and helping clean up the streets and keep as many people safe as we can. We patrol in groups of five like these and wear the ribbons. You must have seen us before, unless, did you hit your head by any chance? Can you tell me your name?”

Harry absorbs all this information. “I’m Harry,” he offers. The women seem very intent on getting him back home but he doesn’t know how to tell him he has no idea what the address of the tower is and that he was just planning on apparating back. 

Just as he’s saying, “I promise you that I am not being neglected, yes I know it’s a thin shirt, no I don’t need your coat though thank you, ma’am --” an incredibly fancy red Lamborghini rolls into the alley and shines on the assembled group with bright headlights. 

Out of the car steps one Tony Stark with a full suit and sunglasses and a million-dollar smile. 

“Ladies,” he says, “We appreciate all you do. Real hero work. But Houdini here is one of mine.” 

The women seem absolutely floored to be in the presence of  _ the _ Tony Stark and are all looking at him in open-mouthed awe.

Harry gives a sheepish wave. “Hey, Stark. Sorry if I worried you.”

  
  
Tony gives Harry a dismissive hand wave. “Worry? I don’t do that. These Archers here do all the worrying for me and all the saving people stuff too. Remind me later to send Priscilla a thank you for facilitating the organization.”

One of the women says, “ _ Priscilla?  _ As in Priscilla Chan?”

Tony gives her a curt nod. “The one and the same.” He moves forward far enough to loop his arm over Harry’s shoulder and draw the boy toward the car. “And you, mini-Merlin, are in so much trouble.”

“Merlin was one of Slytherin’s direct ancestors,” Harry says. Tony’s opened a door and is ushering Harry inside. Harry closes the door but rolls down his window so he can say goodbye to this group of the Archers of Artemis.

“Were those words supposed to be English?” Tony asks.

“English as I am,” Harry responds. 

The archers look on as Tony himself gets into the luxury vehicle. The youngest woman says, to Harry haltingly, “You’re not really 17, are you? Or in need of help?”   
  


Harry gives her an appraising look before he grins. “No, I’m much older than that. Older than all of you, even.” He pauses for a moment as he hears the engine starting up. “And to let you in on a secret, I don’t need the car to get back to where I’m staying either.”   
  


Tony seems to catch on and yells out, “Oh no you don’t--” but Harry’s already thought of the refrigerator in the tower and apparates with a loud crack, leaving the women and Tony to stare at the empty leather passenger seat in disbelief. 

Tony sighs and says, “Son of a bitch.”

***

When Harry appears in the middle of the Avenger’s tower kitchen, only Natasha and Clint are awake. The two of them are sitting on one of Stark’s obscenely expensive couches and speaking in hushed whispers. Clint holds a coffee mug in one hand.

A single drop of coffee spills as Clint turns to stare at the sudden appearance of Harry. He and Natasha seem otherwise unbothered.

“Stark’s gonna get on your ass for doing that,” Clint informs Harry, “he just got Friday to scan for your face and go find you.”

“Why didn’t he just ask Thor to find me?” Harry asks, head quirked to one side.

Natasha gives Harry an incredibly unimpressed look. “Ask for help? Tony Stark does no such thing ever. He was once targeted by terrorists and refused to reach out to any of us.”

Clint mutters a sentence that sounds shockingly like, “And then we turned on him so maybe he was right to leave us out of his messes,” but Harry can’t be sure. Natasha’s face is curiously blank. There’s a story there.

“Why’d he need me at,” Harry checks the clock on an industrial microwave, “6 am anyway?”

FRIDAY’s voice (Stark’s AI -- much more impressively intelligent than any Harry’s ever seen) pipes up, “Boss had an idea he wanted to run by you. Something to do with time travel.”   
  


Clint lays his coffee down on the armrest of the couch and spreads his hand. “That’s Stark for you. Once he gets in one of his inventing moods, he’s just go-go-go and can’t stop until he's finished.”

Harry says, “He reminds me of Hermione.”

Natasha says, soft and prompting, “Who’s Hermione?”

The only response Harry gives is, “Who  _ was _ Hermione? What a question,” and wanders off to go find his baby chick slippers. His feet are cold. 

  
  


Stark is indeed a bit upset at Harry that afternoon for the “disappearing act of the fucking century,” but Harry’s not concerned because he has something that will stop even the genius from his tirade.

Stark is lecturing about how "personal responsibility is not the kind of thing you get to forgo, magic or no, and whilst you are living under _my_ roof after I've gone through all the trouble of keeping Pepper safe and away from all this nonsense and just as I was starting to breathe a little better with who I've lo--"

“ I’ve finished it,” Harry interrupts.

Stark holds up a finger, breathes out, and says, “I may be mellowing with age, but if you dare to interrupt me one more time, I swear to all that is holy in this world I will get TQP to pour boiling water on your head.”

Harry blinks. “TQP?”

Tony says, “Oh, remember that teacup from when I first met you? She fits right in with Friday and Dum-E and U so she’s part of the family now. I named her TQP which stands for Thirst-Quenching-Protector.”

Harry nods as though this makes sense. TQP will be happy to be part of a family. She deserves that. “Good,” Harry says, “treat her well, Stark.”

Stark looks affronted. “I treat all my children well, adopted or no, don’t I Fri?”

FRIDAY’s Irish voice responds, “Better than yourself, boss, but if I may say, that’s not exactly a high bar.”   


Stark grimaces and says to Harry, “It’s just my burden in life that all my children develop sass. But what were you saying about having finished an elusive ‘it?’”

“Right,” Harry grins, “I’ve finished the potion to heal Rhodes’ legs.”

Stark’s eyes narrow. “It’s a spinal injury. Kinda one and done damage. I'd have fixed it if I could.”

“Well that's true but fortunately, I'm shit at science and fucking fabulous at magic. I’ve finally found the last ingredient for  spondylikí stíli so I can fix the damage to Rhodes no problem. We just vanish his spine and he drinks the potion and boom! His spine regrows healthy as ever in four to six hours. I was thinking of giving it to him tonight.”   
  


Clint says from the couch, “You just  _ vanish  _ the  _ spine?” _

Harry says, “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Tony looks at Harry like he is a very confusing and dangerous puzzle. “That sounds horrifying and I bet Rhodey will be all over it.”

  
  


Rhodes  _ is _ all over it. “Tones, it’s a chance. What have I really got to lose?” he’s asking that night in a room with just him, Harry, Thor, and Tony.

“Your spine, for one,” Tony mutters. 

Thor wraps around Harry excited to witness Midguardian magic. “My love is the most accomplished magic user to ever walk in all the realms. James is in the best hands.”

Harry blushes, “I’m not that good --” 

“Fucking hell just say you are for my peace of mind,” Tony interrupts. 

Rhodes rolls his eyes. “Just give me the damn potion so I can wake up and give Wilson the surprise of his life.” 

Harry hands over a thin phial of crystalline blue liquid. Rhodes downs it like a shot and shudders at the feeling.

“Oh,” Harry says, brandishing his wand, “I almost forgot.”

“Forgot  _ what? _ ” Stark says intently. 

Harry finishes the spell quietly and Rhodes go limp against the pillows. “To vanish the spine. But that’s done now. Be weird to have two spines.”

Rhodes seems to pale. “I’m not going to wake up tomorrow, am I? I can’t feel anything.” 

“Don’t worry,” Harry soothes, “you’ll be good as new in the morning. In the meantime,” he hands over another phial, “dreamless sleep will be a help.”   
  


Rhodes downs that one as well with Harry's help (he can't really feel his arms,) and is soon fast asleep. Tony gives Harry a deeply suspicious glare and says, “Drugging people is wrong. If this doesn't work I will kill you.”   
  


Harry ignores the threat and pushes another dose of dreamless sleep into Stark’s hands. “For you, tonight,” and leaves the room with his hand in Thor’s to go back to their room and have some hot God sex. 

***

Sam Wilson is running laps around Stark’s indoor track in the gym early in the morning. He can often get a lap or three in before Steve joins him and proves which of the two of them has superpowers.

In no time at all, he can practically feel steps thundering behind him and rolls his eyes because of course Steve would start waking up early just for this.

But the breaths are too loud and the footfalls too heavy to be Captain America. He turns and there at his side, James Rhodes runs, body weight held by his two legs for the first time in years. 

James’ voice calls out breathless and joyful and triumphant all at once, “ _On your left_.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick Fury: Is that a teacup in Stark's lab?  
> Dum-E: She's my sister  
> Nick Fury: She's pouring day old tea on my head  
> Dum-E: She's... adopted. 
> 
> TQP: Tony Stark "not recommended" my ass
> 
> ___________
> 
> Excting news: I'm writing a real book. That you can buy and stuff! (Woah) The manuscript is due to my publisher March 5th and I'll be going live with the novel in August 2021. If you would all check out my very small and short author page, that would be super nice. (no pressure, most of us come onto AO3 for fanfic and not endorsements, but you miss every shot you don't take, and make every shot you don't miss.) Here it is, btw: [ Author Page](https://www.facebook.com/Maytal-Booth-100632525388306) Check it out to learn my name and catch a glimpse of my face (lol)
> 
> Haha anyway please leave a comment so I know I'm not writing into the void and/or drop a kudos if you feel so inclined


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